Extinction, page 2
2
Olivia lay in the dark, Mark breathing softly next to her. The night was still, without the breath of breeze, the silence profound. It had dropped below freezing, but their sleeping bags were super warm, and she was used to camping in alpine weather. Her dad had taken her and her brothers camping in the Wasatches and Manti-La Sal in all seasons, sometimes on cross-country ski trips in the dead of winter in ten-foot-deep snow and nights to twenty below. God, she missed him. Mark was a little like that, unintimidated by wilderness conditions, totally cool with anything nature might throw at him. The first thing she did with any new boyfriend was go camping. So many of them, despite their big talk, failed the test—all it took was a little rain or snow, a swarm of mosquitoes, or a rattler, and they were in a panic. Or they just didn’t have a wilderness sense—like casually leaving trash or pissing too close to a stream or not knowing how to set up a tent.
She shifted her body, not feeling the slightest bit tired. The sun set so early in the fall, it was still probably only eight o’clock. She wished she could fall asleep like Mark, who could drop off anywhere, anytime, in five minutes. It was a dark, moonless night. The mammoths would be sleeping in their hollow below them. She listened, wondering if mammoths snored. But she could hear nothing.
Her mind wandered, and she thought of her Olympic medal, sitting in its sock in the back of her underwear drawer in Salt Lake. All those years of work, struggle, risks, crashes, injuries, surgery, rehab, recovery, more work, more struggle—and finally Pyeongchang. All that work had been squeezed up and stamped in a piece of bronze sitting in the back of her drawer. Mark had been upset that she wouldn’t frame it and hang it with a picture of her receiving it on the stand. Why would she? She hated even looking at it.
It would be different for her child. Son or daughter, it didn’t matter. He or she wouldn’t make the mistakes she’d made. Olivia had been through it all and knew now how the system worked and what had to be done, and she could guide her child to something a whole lot better than bronze.
She suddenly was hyperalert, tense. She heard a sound. A strange plucking sound. Mark was instantly awake too. And then it started, the loud tearing sound of the tent fly, like it was being cut.
“What the fuck?” Mark sat up like a shot.
She pulled a headlamp out of the tent pocket and switched it on. She shined it through the mosquito netting of the inner tent to reveal a long, ragged cut in the outer fly.
“What was that?” said Mark. “A branch?”
“There’s no wind,” Olivia said.
“You think it’s a bear?” he said.
“They said the bears had been removed.”
“Yeah, but one could have wandered back in over the mountains.”
Olivia wondered. Maybe it was an animal, smelling the humans inside and reaching out to scratch the fly just to see what it was.
They listened, but the silence was total.
“I’m going out,” said Mark.
“No, wait.”
“I’m not waiting. If it’s a cat or bear, we’d better drive it away. We can’t wait for it to come in here.”
He took the headlamp from her, put it on, and pulled his buck knife from its sheath, before slipping out of the bag. He was wearing Capilene full-body long johns. He went to the tent door and unzipped it.
He paused. No sound. Then he stuck his head outside the door.
“See anything?”
“Nothing.”
She was filled with uncertainty. It could be a mountain lion in wait. Maybe it ran off when they turned on the headlamp. But Mark was right: they couldn’t just cower in the tent. They had to do something. Calling out for the guide would only put him in a place of danger, and besides, asking for help from the guide ran against her wilderness ethic.
She felt around and grasped her own knife and put on her own headlamp but didn’t turn it on yet.
“Okay, I’m going out,” he said, and slipped out into the dark.
She could see the glow of his light indistinctly through the tent fabric as he swept the area. She tensed, gripping her own knife.
The glow quietly moved about for a long thirty seconds. She heard him suddenly grunt—a weird sort of snort—and there was the sound of spilling liquid, and the glow vanished.
“Mark?” Olivia cried. “Mark!”
No sound.
She sprang to the tent flap and looked out, turning on her headlamp and sweeping the area with the light. There was his knife, on the ground. Nearby lay his headlamp in the grass, still lit.
“Mark!” she screamed. “Mark! Hey, we need help here!” she cried, leaping out of the tent, gripping the knife. She stopped where he had dropped his knife and headlamp and stared at the ground in horror—just as she felt something strike the back of her neck and slide in, crunching the bone and going through it, as hot as fire and cold as ice at the same time.
3
The whistling cowboy theme of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly surged into the dark room.
“Christ almighty,” Frankie Cash muttered as she fumbled for the glowing phone by her bedside. She picked it up and stared: five a.m. and the call was from her boss, Wallace McFaul.
“Cash,” she answered, trying to keep the thickness of sleep from her voice.
“Frankie,” he said, sounding alarmingly alert, “there’s a situation up at the Erebus Resort.”
“What?”
“Kidnapping, possible murder.”
“Oh, jeez.”
“We’re scrambling a chopper. Detective Romanski will be leading the CSI team.” McFaul hesitated. “According to the roster, it’s your case … Agent in Charge Cash.”
He emphasized ever so slightly the Agent in Charge part: this would be the first case since her promotion to senior detective in the CBI Major Crimes Division.
Now she was wide awake. “I’ll be there in forty.”
Frankie Cash punched the phone off and in a single motion rolled out of bed. By sleeping nude, she made sure there was no delay between bed and shower, and the blast of hot water directly in her face cleared her brain. Sixty seconds later, she was out, whipping herself dry with a rough towel, followed by a fast brushing of hair and teeth. Never ceasing to move, she yanked from a chair the light blue silk blouse, gray worsted jacket, and skirt she had set out ready to go the night before. She dressed, clipping her shield to her waist and holstering her Baby Glock 9 mm, followed by a quick touch of lipstick. She stared for a moment into her face as she smacked her lips together. God, were those really new wrinkles around her eyes? She stuck her tongue out at herself. Fuck off with the worrying about weight, age, wrinkles, and ass—and do your job.
Her first case in Major Crimes. And it felt like it could be a big one.
In the tiny kitchen of her apartment, she boiled water in an electric kettle, poured it into a Yeti mug with two tablespoons of Café Bustelo instant espresso, two tablespoons of Cremora, and two of sugar, snapped on the lid, and two minutes later, she was in her car, heading north on Kipling to CBI headquarters in Lakewood, Colorado.
At five forty a.m., the parking lot of the Colorado Bureau of Investigation was almost empty. The stars were just fading in the night sky when she stepped out into the chilly September air and, carrying her coffee, went into the building and straight to McFaul’s office.
She found her boss, dressed in his unvarying dingy blue suit with white shirt and gray tie, standing in front of his desk, talking to Bart Romanski, head of the CSI team.
McFaul looked at his watch. “Forty minutes on the dot. Is that a record?”
She gave him a quick grin. “I’ve always wanted an Erebus holiday.”
“Not going to be much of a holiday up there for you, I’m afraid,” McFaul said. “At around nine o’clock last night, two backpackers—newlyweds—were abducted from their tent. Names are Mark and Olivia Gunnerson.”
“Gunnerson?” Romanski asked. “Any relation to the tech billionaire?”
“His son.”
“Holy fuck—excuse me, sir.”
McFaul frowned and went on. “They were camped up in the high country. Around nine p.m., the guide heard a scream. By the time he’d pulled on some clothes and gotten to their tent, they were gone. The tent was slashed, and there were two areas of bloodstained grass. Sheriff James Colcord of Eagle County responded with deputies. They immediately called us in to assist.” He turned to Romanski. “This is a case possibly involving significant Forensic Services.”
“Right,” said Romanski.
Cash hadn’t worked with Colcord before but assumed he was like the other elected county sheriffs she’d liaised with in Colorado—good old boys, friendly as long as you didn’t get into their politics—and always worried about the next election.
McFaul went on. “Erebus security have already mounted a big search with their own people. The sheriff’s team is up there now. The crime scene is fourteen miles from the nearest road at an elevation of ten thousand five hundred feet. This is rugged terrain. There’s only one place close by to land a chopper. It’s a half-mile hike from the LZ to the crime scene, so you’ll have to pack your gear. We’re flying at dawn in the A-Star. Any questions?”
“Eaten by a mammoth?” Romanski asked.
Cash stifled a smile.
McFaul frowned; he was famous for his lack of a sense of humor. “Bart, take a powder on the jokes for once, okay?” He turned to Cash, his gray eyes appraising her in a cool, but not unkindly way. “Looks like your first case as agent in charge is going to be a big one.”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded curtly, and she was relieved not to get a pep talk.
“Let’s load up the A-Star. Be sure to stow your gear in packs you can carry a half mile uphill.” He looked at his watch. “Sun rises in twenty-nine minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” said Romanski, turning for the door. Cash followed him out into the corridor.
“This is gonna be a good one,” said Romanski, walking fast on his wiry legs, feet turned out. “I can just feel it.”
Romanski always had a ghoulish thrill for spectacular crimes, the bloodier the better.
“You ever been up there?” Cash asked.
“To Erebus? On my salary?”
“Looks like we’re gonna get to see the place for free.”
“Oh yeah.” He smacked his hands together with glee, a huge grin on his elvish face. “I get the Jacuzzi suite. See you on the chopper, Frankie.”
*
As the A-Star rose, banked, and headed west over the front range, the sky behind them flushed with the sunrise, the peaks dipped in gold. The first snow of the season had come a few days before, and it carpeted the high country in dazzling white. It was a magnificent sight, and it reminded Cash all over again of why she had moved to Colorado from Portland, Maine. Portland had a lot of snow, but it never looked quite this good.
This promised to be a high-profile case, and she was finally going to see the fabulous Erebus Resort from the inside. On the other hand, with one of the victims being a billionaire’s son, this had the potential of blowing up. High risk, high return.
Inside the chopper, the six passengers were crowded together on bench seating as they sped over the mountains. Cash took stock: Romanski had brought along two crime scene investigators, a forensic specialist in latents, firearms, and toolmarks, and another in trace chemistry, fibers, and miscellaneous evidence. Scrunched between them was the CBI’s chief medical examiner, Dr. Chris Huizinga, a serious young man with black-rimmed glasses and pale-yellow hair.
As the chopper thwapped through the dawn air, Cash took a certain satisfaction in identifying the mountain ranges below: Mount Evans, where she had thrown up from altitude sickness in her first week in Colorado ten years ago; Grays Peak; Keystone, where she loved to ski; the town of Frisco; Grand Traverse Peak; Keller Mountain—they were heading west-northwest. Finally, as they cleared Pilot Knob and the Flat Tops, the lush valley of Erebus came into view. It was a deep glacial cirque enclosing the upper drainage of the Erebus River, surrounded by a semicircle of twelve- and thirteen-thousand-foot peaks, with one point of entry where the road from below came in. The entire valley was the resort—over ninety thousand acres: a hundred and forty-four square miles.
The helicopter began to descend into the valley. The resort’s famous lodge came into view, modeled after Treetops in Kenya, a spectacular timbered structure cantilevered from a mountainside above a lake. Farther up the valley she saw the old ghost town of Erebus, a picturesque mining camp restored into a movie set.
The chopper continued toward the head of the valley. Cash, staring out the window, spied five huge shapes moving slowly through an open meadow.
“Hey, Romanski, check that out.”
She pulled her binocs out of her pack and focused. Romanski leaned over her shoulder to see, breathing down her neck. Springing into view was a family of woolly mammoths, traveling lazily in a group. The shaggy bull took up the rear, his immense tusks gleaming in the dawn light, with several cows leading the way, and in the middle, two little ones bumbling along.
“Lemme see.”
She handed the binocs to Romanski.
“Amazing,” he said. “Jurassic Park for real.”
The chopper veered to the northwest, toward a spectacular arc of stone towers, like blunt granite teeth, surrounding a hanging valley. A tiny lake, a turquoise jewel, nestled in the bottom of the valley.
Now the chopper turned and descended toward a meadow just above the lake—evidently their LZ. As it came down at a hover, a sheriff’s deputy stood in the field, acting as a flagger, waving orange batons indicating where the helicopter was to set down into the grass. A moment later, they had settled on the ground, and the rotors were powering down.
Frankie Cash grabbed her backpack. She had packed light—coffee, water, a PB&J sandwich, compass, notebook, binoculars, lighter. A crew member opened the door, and she tucked her Red Sox cap over her short hair and hopped down, clearing the rotors at a crouch. The CSI team followed with their packs. They gathered at the edge of the meadow. Romanski came up beside her and thumped his pack down.
“Nice view.”
“You’re not kidding.”
“Here comes the sheriff.”
She looked around and saw a guy come striding over, big cowboy hat, fifty give or take, six foot five, wearing a star. He was pretty much what she expected, and that wasn’t encouraging. Maybe it was his resemblance to John Wayne, the type of big, macho, slow-talking man she heartily disliked.
He grasped her hand in his, cool and dry, his eyes the color of washed denim. “Sheriff Jim Colcord, Eagle County. My deputy, Teresa Sandoval.”
A slender and much younger woman, dressed in a perfectly starched and pressed uniform, nodded a greeting.
“Frankie Cash, CBI agent in charge.” She gave his hand a brief, hard squeeze. “Our team—” She pointed to each one in turn. “Romanski, chief detective, CSI Forensic Services; Dr. Huizinga, ME; Reno and Butler, CSI specialists.”
A flurry of nods.
“Thanks for coming,” said Colcord. “We’ve got a bit of a hike ahead of us. I’ll fill you in as we go.”
Cash hefted her pack and swung it over her shoulder.
“I can help you with that, Agent Cash,” he said, reaching out to take it from her. “We’re close to eleven thousand feet up here.”
“No thanks,” she said, shrugging into the shoulder straps. “I wouldn’t want to put an elderly man at risk for myocardial infarction at this altitude.”
Romanski stifled a laugh.
Colcord frowned. “No offense meant.”
“No offense taken,” said Cash cheerfully. “Let’s go.”
4
Frankie Cash paused at the perimeter of the crime scene, breathing hard from the steep hike. While she recovered her breath, she gave the area a visual sweep. It was a spectacular location, a high meadow tucked at the base of snowcapped peaks, with views north and west of the Erebus Valley, and beyond that, mountains after mountains as far as the eye could see.
Crime scene tape had already been strung by the sheriff and the deputy, and it fluttered in a cool breeze. It enclosed the campsite in the meadow, next to a grove of aspen trees. A green tent was pitched in the middle. A fire ring of stones stood twenty yards from the tent, at the edge of the meadow, the fire reduced to ashes. The victims’ packs were leaning against a tree nearby, with rain covers. Everything was neat and shipshape—apart from a ragged tear in the tent fly and two big, dark, clotted stains on the flattened grass outside the tent.
Beyond the crime scene, the land fell away down a gentle slope to a ridge, and she could see the lake, shimmering like a piece of fallen sky. Beyond that, the mountains rose into scree slopes and cliffs to end in a row of snowy mountaintops—the Barbicans, according to the GPS map on her phone. On the other side of the campsite, a creek ran out of the aspen grove and gurgled downslope in a series of little waterfalls and pools, overhung with grass and fall flowers. The early-morning light shone through the aspen trunks and striped the scene in light and shade.
She looked closer at the area where the stains were. They were bigger than she had assumed from what McFaul had described—a lot bigger. That was not good. She could see no obvious evidence of a disturbance, struggle, or the comings and goings of attackers. The grass was flattened down in places by being trod upon, but there were no marks of the dragging of bodies.
She turned her attention to the tent. It was an ultralight backpacking tent, covered by an outer fly. The diagonal tear in its side had been made in the fly only, not the inner part of the tent. The cut was about two and a half feet long. She couldn’t tell if it had been done with a knife or something else. Romanski, she knew, would take the tent back to the lab and give the tear a microscopic examination.
Cash had always found it useful to suspend deduction and analysis when first at a crime scene. Instead, she tried to fix the scene visually in her mind. Memorize it. But this crime scene resisted that. The contrast between the beauty of the surroundings and the horror that had occurred was too great to wrap her mind around, at least right away. Above all, it seemed a crazy place for a kidnapping—or a double homicide if those bloodstains were to be taken seriously. Who would hike up here, all this way? That tear, she thought, was just possibly ragged enough to have been done by an animal. Could it have been one of the park’s creatures? Was this a Jurassic Park for real?
